


Low Down In Motown

by glinda4thegood



Category: Supernatural
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-01-25
Updated: 2011-01-25
Packaged: 2017-10-15 14:53:07
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,939
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/161924
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/glinda4thegood/pseuds/glinda4thegood
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Shop talk and sex</p>
            </blockquote>





	Low Down In Motown

_**FIC Supernatural:Low Down in Motown**_  
Title: **Low Down In Motown**  
Author: **Glinda**  
Rating: **NC17**  
Characters: Castiel/Meg  
Timeline: Post Caged Heat and Appointment in Samarra  
Summary: Shop talk and sex  
Follow-up to: Leave Your Tie On

  
 _She said do you want to come you better hurry because  
We'll have hell to pay_  
\- Detroit, Rancid

 _"Castiel . . . what a peculiar thing you are."_ \- Lucifer (Abandon All Hope)

Meg sat on a sagging bed in what had to be the most busted-ass-rent-by-the-half-hour motel Detroit had to offer. She stubbed out a cigarette and reached automatically for another. The pack was empty.

Smoke hung in the air, thick as a depressed afternoon over a Los Angeles freeway. It improved the smell of the place considerably. Meg crushed the cigarette pack into a wad and threw it toward the room's single piece of furniture. She was kitty-corner across country from the city where she had hooked up with her current meatsuit. Girl/Meg's birth state, as it turned out.

A rattling gust of damp air through the window by the door sent the smoke rolling, an effect not unlike a spirit lava lamp. Meg forced herself out of apathetic reverie to take a hard evaluation of her situation.

The room's time distressed, single drawer dresser had unexpectedly achieved a sad festivity. Bottles, mostly empty, of every size and shape clustered in a shrine around bright plastic cups. The bed was limp and reeked of stale tobacco, but was also free of vermin. Her first act after stepping through the door had been to work an industrial-strength curse that not only cleared her room, but most of the city block.

Meg considered dropping in on the owners of the motel, some international corporation based in China, and demanding payment for her services.

No smokes, little booze, it was just after 3 a.m. and somebody with an unattractive adenoidal voice was getting a blow job in the next room. On the up side, the shower almost worked, she had no stupid minions in tow, and, as far as she knew Hell or Heaven didn't care where she was, or what she was doing.

Since leaving Crowley's compound she had kept her ears open toward Hell, and her meatsuit hidden away in quiet corners of the world. Perversely, Detroit had drawn her. Lucifer's presence still vibrated here, but she doubted if any important hellkin were hanging around after what was widely considered to be an embarrassing fumble in the fourth quarter of the big game.

Meg slipped off the bed and picked her way to the dresser. The carpet was indescribable. She poured herself three fingers of cheap bourbon and knocked it back absently. There was hell to pay. Azazel and Alastair gone. Lilith dead. Ruby dead. Lucifer in the pit. Crowley's bones barbecued. Hell enflamed with another power shift. The fucking WInchesters were nothing but Demon Reapers. Meg had no intention of putting herself in harm's way with them again. Once to hell flying Winchester Air was more than enough for her. There was nothing that said _demon_ had to be synonymous with _slow learner_.

Patience was the key. Patience was a hellbitch.

Since her big moment with Castiel there had been a barmaid with a bow tie, two businessmen (one a Russian "businessman" she had strangled with his own tie without coming close to getting off, thank you very much), a minor league hockey player, a loud Texan with a lariat tie, and a truck driver who reminded her a little of Bobby Singer. None of them had been much fun.

Meg turned away from the dresser, restless and _wanting._

The television didn't work anymore. It had self-destructed during her first evening in the room, in the middle of a porno flick with the unlikely title _The Devil Went Down On Georgia._ And it would never work again. She had used its cable and electric cord to tie the shower curtain around the Russian. Drunken moron _would_ keep calling her _m' dark angel_. He'd gotten off easy with a little blood letting and strangulation.

More chill wind funneled into the room from around the edges of a cancerously rusted air conditioner, through drapes held together with duct tape. The truck driver who had followed her back to the room from a nearby Mom and Pop PartiMart had puked next to the door. She'd bribed the desk clerk to have it cleaned up, but whoever had done the job needed killing.

Caught in the draft, Meg watched the only garment she wore undulate, white billows that made her think of . . . a white cotton/polyester, size large man's dress shirt she'd taken off the dead Russian. It fell nearly to her knees and gaped in front because she hadn't wanted to make the effort at undoing the buttons. She stepped away from the draft, gathering the shirt closer, slipping her hand inside to touch her breasts. They pinged awareness, nipples hardening like exclamation points. They were bored, too.

Clarence . . . Castiel had said he would kill her if he saw her again. Meg considered the potential of that promise. Castiel had surprised Heaven and Hell with the amount of raw power Someone had loaded into his arsenal. Sweet, tight arsenal.

Caution! Bump ahead. Rough road. Verboten, baby. But he was so shiny.

"I'd really like to hit that again," Meg said aloud, wistfully, looking down at her nipples. It was a dangerous, self-destructive thought that warmed her to the core. But, as minor demon and M.D., Gregory House had wisely observed: _who wouldn't want to hit that, if_ that _looked like that._

She returned to the dresser and emptied the bourbon bottle.

Of all the things she had never done, had never thought she would ever do, standing in a squalid motel room in a dead man's buttonless dress shirt, weaponless, summoning an enemy with the power of an archangel so she could get her rocks off had to be number one in the extreme countdown list of **NEVER**.

Meg cleared her throat and wished for a cigarette. She stared upward, trying to project an impression of earnest worth and good intention that was fundamentally lacking in her nature. "Hey Clarence. Jesus left Chicago, and Meg's in the Motor City. Want to do dinner and a movie?" She started to giggle as soon as the words left her mouth. "I summon thee, baby, for a good . . . ."

"My name is Castiel."

He was standing by the bathroom door. In her haste to turn, Meg put her foot down squarely on a patch of carpet she had been avoiding since renting the room. It stuck to the bottom of her foot. "Shit. You ever ask yourself why your kind loves to use the rear entrance?"

"My name is Castiel," he repeated. His expression was narrow-eyed and foreboding. "Not Clarence. Not dildo."

When her laughter eventually stopped, Meg wiped the tears off her cheeks and held her breath to quit hiccuping. "Noted," she said weakly. "I think there's some vodka left."

"No." He raised his hand, then lowered it and looked around. "I can't kill you, it would be a mercy. For a moment, I thought this was hell. It smells like the place they kennel the hellhounds."

"I'm flying under the radar," Meg said defensively. "I did nuke the bedbugs."

Castiel's expression flattened further as he examined her. "Your wounds have nearly healed."

"The suit is good as new." Meg patted her stomach. "I find I'd like to keep it that way for a while."

"A demon summons an angel from the battlefield because it is horny . . ." Castiel paused, closed his eyes and made a wry face. "I apologize. Winchester humor. Your action does not make it seem as if you care for your safety. Do you have the final death wish?"

Meg stalked to the bed and sat down. "You'd think so. I have an iPod loaded with Dolly Parton, Roger Miller, Hank Williams Jr., and the Dixie Chicks . . . stolen from a human that somewhere still breathes to walk this world." She made a motion toward the door. "He's also responsible for that."

Castiel raised his eyebrows. "Are you sure he wasn't one of yours?"

"I'm glad you answered." Meg put her hand to her mouth. She had meant to say something about humping like crazed ferrets.

"I won't answer again." His shoulders slumped. "We are regrouping, it was not completely inconvenient." Castiel looked at her, head cocked to one side. "If there's nothing else?"

"I know it's perverse, but you could stay for a few minutes and we could talk shop." She moved across the bed to the far side. "Have a seat." Her voice sounded improbably casual to her own ears. She held her breath as he considered the idea. He had the habit of holding his bottom lip between his teeth when thoughtful or perplexed. It was very cute.

"For a few minutes." The bed's two small pillows were flat and ugly with permanent urine yellow stains. Castiel placed them against the wall, behind his back. "Do you have further information about Crowley's activities?"

"No. Everything is focused on shifting power right now. You?"

"I have had no opportunity for investigation." Castiel pulled his legs onto the bed. "Dean has not made any recent demands, so they have found nothing yet."

"I heard --" she paused, but he had to know. "I heard Sam got his soul back."

"I wasn't there." Castiel sounded dubious and distracted. "We will see what comes of it."

There was silence between them. Meg scrambled internally. What did she possibly have to talk about with an angel? "And your war goes --?"

"It still goes." He tipped his head back and let it rest against the wall. "I don't know how long I can continue on this course."

He didn't object when she crawled to him and lay her head on his chest. "We do what we must," Meg said. "Devil take the hindmost."

"Thank you. I feel so much better." Castiel's arm went around her.

He was solid and warm. There was still a faint scent in his clothing, a trace of spicy man's cologne left on the collar of his shirt. Meg draped an arm across his chest, moving carefully. _When stalking the angelicus clarensus a good hunter should remember that, although shy, the creature can move with the speed of light and_ exorcise _your ass . . ._

"Say my name."

"Castiel." Meg's lips barely moved. Her knees trembled.

"If I stay, it won't be about you, or about me. It will be about them."

"Them?" If there was a chance she could get lucky again, it could be about anyone he wanted.

"These bodies belonged to a man and a woman. They had life, hope, love of their own. When I accepted the use of this vessel I believed the man's act to be one of worship and obedience to Him. Now . . ." Castiel paused. "You took that vessel by force. Is there anything left of her?"

"A little." Meg tilted her head so she could look into his face. "She was in pretty rough shape when I moved in. Drugs, alcohol and depression were her day-to-day. She didn't know anything about _hope_ and _love_." The words felt wrong, uncomfortable. "I don't think we mean the same thing when we say those words. But the whole necro concept has potential."

He pulled her onto his chest enough to kiss her with lips only, tongue just out of reach. Meg went with the tempo, although she had never been one to spend a lot of time on the preliminaries. Kissing was like pulling the starter cable on a generator. It only took a couple of tries to get fired up. But there was something incredibly seductive about the tease of his mouth, about the sense he was totally _here_ and focused on nothing but her. By the time tongues were involved, every inch of her suit was damp, ready, and pressed against naked male skin.

Meg reconnoitered. Her shirt, his clothes, gone. "Slick trick." She curved her palm over his pec and looked into blue, blue eyes. Girl/Meg would have said his mouth was shaped like a cupid's bow, the cleft of his chin like an inverted . . . Fuck. Meg backed away from the thoughts with horror. The fucking angel was trying a long con on her. He was trying to seduce her. The thought was horrible and funny; it made her simultaneously wetter than hell after a massacre, prouder than a football mom with a kid in charge of organizing cheerleader gang bangs.

"Enough foreplay. Quit dicking around and start dicking around." Her hand slipped downwards and found ample evidence he was ready.

"I do not take orders from _you_." Castiel turned her and pressed himself against her back. "I believe this is called spooning."

"I call this boring." Meg lied. She bumped against him and wriggled encouragement.

"Boring?" His arms caged her, his hands explored. "You must be right. I don't think some words carry the same meaning for us."

Girl or Demon, neither Meg had known it was possible for skin to approach orgasm. The sensation of pounding blood in her cunt was familiar. The same sensation diffused over her entire body was an excruciating new pleasure. And he was using only the tips of his fingers. "Ready now," she said, several times. When he ignored her, Meg tried with all her strength to roll him and force the issue. It was a brief struggle, nearly successful.

"Patience." Castiel's breath was warm against her ear. His fingers rubbed delicate whorls around her nipples. "Did you say you were ready now?"

"Alastair would have found you an interesting study," Meg said breathlessly, impressed by her own ability to respond coherently. "Yes, damn you. I know English is a second language for you, but I believe I said, several times with emphasis, _I'm ready,_ you asshole."

His arms released her. "Then let us do it together."

Meg rolled over, ignoring sharp jabs from the mattress. He sat next to her, serenely composed in his nakedness, waiting for her answer. "I didn't just fall off a turnip truck," she said crossly, finding one of Girl/Meg's limited selection of colloquialisms rising unbidden. "I know what you're doing."

"There has been every evidence of that." Castiel almost smiled.

"How can I resist an angel offering me a hard bargain?" Meg held out her arms and opened her legs. "Okay then. Together."

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

"Was the bed intentional?" Castiel's head rested between her breasts. "If the answer is yes, I must conclude you are more cunning and evil than I previously believed."

"Bastard. Your bruises are gone already. Look at my back." Meg heaved him off of her and sat up, trying to see over her shoulder. "Not intention, just serendipity."

"Let me."

His hand traveled over her back, leaving a warmth that curled her toes. Various aches faded, others intensified. Meg scooted away from him quickly.

"I don't think that gift was meant to be used on me. The sex was --" _angelcrack_ "You seemed to have a good time. I had a good time, in spite of the lack of blood and torture and death."

Castiel cocked his head and looked at her. "You're forgetting the mattress." He stood, and was fully dressed. "I must go. If I see you again --"

"You'll kill me?" Appropriate lover's leave-taking between demon and angel, Meg thought with inappropriate regret.

"I thought perhaps we could talk shop," Castiel said. "You haven't given me your name. Your real name. I find I cannot continue to call you Abomination."

A real name. That was a powerful, terrible gift -- or burden. "Meg. I'm Meg for now. I know why I called you -- Castiel." She stumbled over his name, but got it out. "Why did you answer? Demon reclamation effort? Or are you just that damaged?"

He looked troubled. His eyes met hers, clear and honest and as blue as heaven's sky . . . Fuck. He was doing it again. Meg glared at him. "Well?"

"I have found a sense of place and purpose on this Earth, with some of these humans. I like them," he said simply. "You were human, once."

She stared into the space where he had been, searching and failing to find the necessary words with which to curse him. The bastard was far more dangerous than any of them had suspected.

  
Meg showered as well as she could with a quarter-sized piece of soap. She dried herself with the bedspread, rubbing their smell into her skin. Angel crack was energizing. She was done hiding and watching. A little networking, a few power lunches were on her calendar. It was tIme to polish off the inner evil bitch and let her blaze like hellfire. Perhaps she would dust off Alastair's old Queen of Hell title and see how it felt on her.

She found the shirt hanging from a dresser knob. Meg tied it around her midriff and rolled up the sleeves. When she pulled her jeans from the dresser, the stolen iPod dropped to the carpet. After a brief internal debate, Meg left it in the toilet as her tip to the cleaning service.

  
 _Has he offered you happiness, money, or much better lays  
Satan leave me, leave me lonely, leave us alone  
I've got books that say the good man's golden  
And more that say the bad will fall . . .  
Life is a game, and the stakes will remain the same.  
Now you've gotta choose, is the devil gonna win or lose again_  
\- The Devil Game, Kansas: Walsh & Hope


End file.
